


The Mother's Hymn

by silver_eagle



Series: Songs of the Dragons [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aerys Targaryen/Rhaella Targaryen - past, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen - past, Episodic Chapters, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen - past, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_eagle/pseuds/silver_eagle
Summary: Catelyn Tully, now hailed as the new Lady of Winterfell, must navigate her new role amidst the challenges of motherhood. With her husband's choices in the war further complicating her new life, she must learn to look within herself to truly understand the House words she has grown up to, and how they can help her.Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, Rhaella Targaryen raises the other Targaryen children in shaky peace. Despite the support from House Martell and the Kingsguard, the blood of the dragon that runs hot in her brood's veins may jeopardize their safety. Will they survive long enough to achieve vengeance with Fire and Blood?
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Dacey Mormont/Benjen Stark
Series: Songs of the Dragons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1357204
Comments: 30
Kudos: 42





	1. A Fish out of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn faces her new reality.

**Fish out of Water**

Catelyn Stark, once Tully, has never seen herself as a cruel woman. She crafted her whole life around House Tully’s words. Family, Duty, Honor. A devout of the Seven, her prayers were always spoken dutifully. She knew her hymns. Since Mother passed on, she did her best to raise both of her siblings — yes, even the _headstrong_ Lysa. As soon as they were betrothed, she loved Brandon fiercely, and defended him from Petyr’s slander. When Brandon was slain by the Mad King’s machinations, she swallowed her grief and went on to marry the quiet, unassuming Ned.

She felt none of the fire that Brandon’s presence had given her, but she promised to love her new husband all the same. The Seven even blessed her with a son so soon after their marriage, for she had done her duty as a wife.

All along, she had believed that she’s always done what _must_ be done — her duties, and everything else expected of her. Despite the certain inevitabilities of life, she thrived with the Seven’s grace. However, the recent developments have done nothing but force her to cast doubt upon her good fortune, and her favor with the New Gods.

Has she really done her duties well enough? Why must the gods see fit to give her a husband who wishes nothing but to endanger her and their son? Is something the matter with her?

The same three questions create a storm in her mind, even as she lies down to sleep beside the husband she hasn’t seen in nearly a year. She can’t help but think of the Targaryen children — Lyanna Stark’s babes — that sweet, foolish Ned brought home. She fears that she married a man who cares not for the dangers their new _guests_ now pose to his House.

And yet…

She understands why her husband did it. He’s right — this is his duty to his sister, and the fulfillment of his honor’s demands. The children are his blood, and again, her House words ring in her mind. _Family, Duty, Honor_. It’s more complicated than it seems.

Ned stirs beside her with a soft sigh. “I hope you’re not still _angry_ with me, my lady.”

 _Angry?_ She must admit, the rage was there for a while. Now that she has sorted everything out, however, all she can feel is acceptance. Resignation. “I am a mother too, Lord Stark. I have every right to be cross, and yet I choose to understand. You’re right — you have a duty to your family and your honor. Besides, should you succeed in restoring the Targaryens to the throne, our House will stand to gain the most, will it not? It will secure a good future for our children.”

“Aye.” A displeased look darkens Ned’s face. He had mentioned his dislike for politics during their wedding, and yet here he is, making his own plans for House Stark. War truly changes a person. “We have much to gain, and more to lose — that’s why we must _succeed_. And for that to happen, I need you by my side.”

“I still have my reservations, my lord, but I will help in every way that I can.” She wonders if her words have sealed House Stark’s fate. “All you have to do is ask.”

“The children need a mother. Help me raise them well.” Her lord husband truly is as blunt as the Starks are said to be.

“I will raise them, take care of them, and treat them with the respect they _deserve_ , my lord, but I can’t make promises beyond that.” Not just _yet_. Even a mother has her limits.

“It’s all I can ask of you.” Resignation is clear in Ned’s words. “Please, treat them well.”

“Do you doubt my _integrity_ , my lord?”

“Never, my lady.”

They barely know each other as husband and wife, and yet Catelyn knows the truth in his words. She had married a man of honor, indeed — though the matter of honor is more complicated than it seems.

* * *

Morning dawns, crisp and cold. Like her husband, Catelyn rises early. There’s _too much_ to attend to today, especially with Benjen’s preparations for Moat Cailin. She breaks her fast with honeyed bread and ham — a good meal she can now barely taste, as her heart hammers in her chest.

She had thought about the children all night. Despite her reservations, she now knows that her role in the Targaryen twins’ upbringing is a crucial one. While she — like many others — still fear that the children may have inherited their grandfather’s madness, perhaps she can curb some of it and nip it in the bud. She managed to handle Lysa’s impulsiveness for years, after all. How different can this be? Besides, raising the Targaryen to be as close to her children as possible will eventually bear fruit. She can feel it in her bones.

Then there’s also the matter of the northmen’s acceptance. A good number of them still do not trust her, she knows. She’s heard their whispers of their new _Southron_ lady, and possible attempts to supplant their old gods. While she follows the Faith, truly, she has no plans of forcing them to share in her beliefs. All she wants is to be respected, and be allowed to worship the Seven.

There’s still a long way to go before she can even earn some modicum of respect here, but perhaps her new duty will help her immensely. After all, few ladies would take kindly to their husband’s supposed bastards and yet there she shall be, welcoming them with open arms.

Doing her duty well may secure a better future for her children _and_ earn the North’s respect.

She parts ways with her husband after their meal, wishing him well with a polite peck on the lips. There’s no love between them yet, but she hopes it will come in time. It had been the same for her parents, after all.

With a sigh, she heads for the nursery after one last glance at the Great Hall. Only a few servants cross her path, bowing subserviently to the new Lady of Winterfell. She returns their courtesies with her own, curtseys and bows and polite murmurs polished to perfection since her childhood.

 _My perfect little Cat,_ father used to call her before the other river lords. The past is a closed door, however. Now it’s time for her to shape the future.

None of the guards stationed outside pose any resistance as she sweeps into the nursery. Wylla, the nursemaid that Ned had brought with him, bows low at the sight of her. She responds with a curt little nod, still wondering what to make of the younger woman.

“How are the children?” she asks instead to avoid an awkward silence.

“As well as can be, m’lady.” Wylla never averts her gaze, despite their differences in status. Dornishmen truly are as strange as the stories say. “The pr— Jeyne cried all night, but the noise didn’t disturb the boys one whit.”

“That’s all I can hope for.” Catelyn reaches out for her son, kissing the crown of his head with a soft coo.

Though she knows she’ll love little Robb no matter what, she can’t help but lament his Tully blue eyes and auburn hair. He looks less like a Stark than his cousins, whom the rest of the realm now think of as Ned’s bastards, and it will surely bring trouble in the years to come unless she does something about it.

With a quick bow, Wylla takes a step back. “I shall take my leave now, m’lady.”

“No.” Catelyn blinks at the sight of the blanching wet nurse. Did her words come out too harshly? She must do better, then. “Stay, please. Tell me about the… the twins.”

By noon, most of Catelyn’s initial anger and annoyance at the twins has dissipated, leaving only pity. Benjen was right. _Fuck Rhaegar,_ indeed.

Robb in hand, she sets out for the Great Hall, hoping to find her husband there. The high table is still empty by the time she arrives, however, though she spots Jaime Lannister sitting alone just a few meters away from her. He looks up as he approaches, looking far older than a young man of ten and seven.

“My lady,” he greets her with a sigh.

Catelyn assumes her position as Lady Stark with a subtle change of her posture. “I hope you are being treated well, Ser Walton.” The name sounds odd in her ears, but she pays it no mind. They must keep the appearances up.

“As well as can be.” The lordling’s face is pleasantly blank. Did Lord Tywin teach him _that_? “House Stark’s hospitality towards Southron folk is unmatched.”

They’re willing to extend their hospitality to one, Catelyn thinks, as long as they’re not supposed to assume ladyhood upon them all. The bitterness threatens to tumble out of her lips, but she holds it at bay. “I am pleased to hear that, good ser, but do you not miss the family you’ve left behind?”

Ser Jaime’s calm mask briefly breaks, displaying a look of despair. “I do miss them, despite everything. It was why I asked for one boon from Lord Stark before I followed him here. But my duty is to my honor, and so I remain.”

Her father has many unkind words for House Lannister — Ser Jaime among them. Despite the constant assurances of his loyalty to her husband’s cause, she can’t help but doubt the young knight’s intentions. Lord Tywin is known for his political machinations, after all. His son’s noble goal of saving the remaining Targaryens might be his way of playing both sides. An unkind thought for one who had done House Stark a great service, but Catelyn knows she must be vigilant.

Anything is possible, when one plays the sordid Game of Thrones. It’s what Father always said.

Still, courtesy is both her weapon and armor. “It is most admirable of you. Living far from your home for your duty and honor is difficult, and yet you remain. As you say.”

Ser Jaime purses his lips — is he studying her as much as she’s studying him? Perhaps. They are all playing the game, even up North. “I know you might doubt my intentions, my lady, but I stand by my words. I am here out of duty and honor, regardless of my family.”

Once again, House Tully’s words are brought up. _Family, Duty, Honor_. Can one exist without the others? Is there duty and honor outside of family? Can one uphold their duty to their family without a sense of honor? Does everyone have a duty to uphold their family’s honor? The questions make Catelyn’s head swim.

“I shall give you the benefit of the doubt for now but do not — even for a second — assume that I completely trust you, _Ser Walton._ ” Catelyn turns away as Robb squirms in her arms. The conversation is over for now, as far as she’s concerned.

“I’m not here to seek your approval. I’m here to do my job.”

Ned is already waiting for Catelyn by the time she makes it to the high table. She sits as daintily as she can, ignoring his curious stare until she has settled down well with Robb. Servants flit towards her with a bowl of hot mutton stew and a platter of herbed bread. A young woman fills her goblet with spiced wine — they must still think her soft, for everyone else today has been provided with a tankard of hearty ale instead.

“Is something the matter?” her lord husband whispers in her ear. “Did _he_ say something to displease you?”

“Nothing of consequence.” Catelyn knows it’s not the truth, but she’s all too aware of the trust that Ned has put on the Lannister knight. “I was simply pleased to meet someone as _Southron_ as I am.”

Ned raises a brow. “You seem to have a disagreement.”

“What _is_ and what seems to be are two different things, my lord.” Catelyn purses her lips and turns to her food, effectively ending their conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! The lockdown has been especially harsh on the mental health, and I had to take yet another break before churning this out. Cat, honestly, isn't at her best here, but I promise that she'll get better bit by bit. The point of this fic is to explore her character, not to demonize her.
> 
> From here on out, expect frequent timeskips. We're going to cover years in this fic, since it will serve as a bridge to the main book timeline. Every chapter will alternate between Cat and Rhaella to cover events on both sides of the Narrow Sea.


	2. The Coin Has Been Tossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella contemplates on the future of House Targaryen, and the madness in their blood.
> 
> Trigger warning: Trauma, references to rape and sexual abuse

The sound of the children’s laughter commands Rhaella’s senses whenever she closes her eyes and fills her heart with peaceful silence. It was all she truly wished for, once upon a time — a life of peace and quiet amidst her children’s laughter. She never wanted to be queen. Being a princess was too much for her already, most of the time.

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have wished for that. A quiet life with her brood, relieved of her crown’s burden — it all came with a price too heavy to bear.

But now all she can do is live with the consequences. Rhaegar and Aerys are both gone, for better or worse, their House ousted from its seat of power. Rhaegar’s children with poor Lyanna Stark are hidden from the world in the harsh North, unaware of their birthright.

Despite the spark of joy that Daenerys’ birth has given her, a dark haze of sadness remains within Rhaella’s heart, shadowing her every move. It haunts her dreams, bringing fear — perhaps even a promise — of the same madness that has constantly threatened to destroy the Targaryens over and over since time immemorial.

However, she must stay strong. Elia has proven her capability again and again, but Rhaella knows the younger woman can't do  _ everything  _ by herself especially with all the children that must be raised. They have a long way to go before they can sail home and reclaim the throne.

The thoughts swirl in her head as she watches little Aegon run after his sister, laughing and screaming as Rhaenys pokes his chubby cheek. They have more than enough to last them a few more years — a decade, if they manage to maintain their reasonably humble lifestyle. This peace will not last long, and soon they will need more gold to stay alive and secure a proper army for their return to Westeros.

She voices out her worries to Elia, who's busy patching up one of Viserys' tunics with her admirably deft needlework. The Dornish Princess looks up from her work with a smile as she finishes, a scheming glint in her dark eyes —  _ viper eyes _ , as Rhaegar used to say.

"I have discussed the very same matter with Oberyn in great lengths before he left," Elia admits. "We do need the gold, Queen Mother, and my brother had plenty of ideas to share. Some of them are not to my liking but perhaps there is some merit in the others. He suggested that we try to delve in trading, for one."

Rhaella raises a silver brow. The idea is tempting, and yet... "My dear, this is not Dorne. Few — if any — will take a pair of women seriously. Such a strange sight may even make it all the way to the west and endanger us all."

"But what if we don't have to be the traders that everyone else must deal with?" The intensity in Elia's gaze deepens. The Dornish are strange folk, indeed. "Women are not treated so terribly here in Braavos, but perhaps we can have Arthur act as our face, so to speak. He is young and sturdy and comely. His integrity shines through without having to say one word. I am sure that people will be easily impressed by him once we start dealing with people outside of this city."

Rhaella hums noncommittally. "It’s a good idea, but there's much planning to be done. Engaging in trade is not as easy as it sounds — it's almost quite akin to running a kingdom, if half the stories at court are true. But I shall consider it, my dear. We still have many years ahead before we'll truly need the gold."

"And yet we must start as soon as we can, if we are to save plenty for our future ventures."

"I know, but we can't be rash like — forgive me — your brother. Your level-headedness has served us well so far. Let it remain so."

Despite her reluctance, Elia's suggestion has planted a seed in her mind, slowly blooming into a vast world of possibilities. Trade, if done right, will open their doors not just to new opportunities to fund their plans, but also plenty of connections who might help them reclaim their throne — unknowingly or not. The temptation of future victories is so sweet but she remains firm in her decision to think it through first.

With Daenerys in her arms, she finds herself heading out of their humble new home for the first time in weeks. Now that her hair is dyed black and her daughter is swaddled tightly, no one pays her any mind. She blends in with the crowd easily despite her pale features and no one gives her a glance long enough to notice her purple eyes.

She could have ordered one of their last handful of servants to run this errand for her but she had the feeling that she must be the one to go out today. Perhaps it's the feeling of being cooped up for too long. Or maybe it's a sign of her Targaryen madness, rearing its ugly head after laying dormant for so many years. After all, she had even slipped away from the Kingsguard’s watchful eyes just to make it all the way here.

Fabric merchants call out to her as she passes, offering their wares. She ignores them all, deeming their fabric too gaudy. If House Targaryen is to live in hiding, then they must erase all traces of their presence — including their lavish clothes.

Viserys had wept when Elia finished painstakingly sewing his newes tunic, crying out about the disrespect that the cheap wool fabric brought him. Rhaella gave him a piece of her mind — she would not bend down to the tiny spark that the boy has inherited from Aerys. Her growing fear of her own child stirs a quiet sense of fear in her heart, but what can she do? He becomes more and more like his father with every passing day despite their attempts to correct him.

A part of her wonders if little Daenerys is doomed to the same fate. She prays not.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost trods upon a roll of cloth — one from about half a dozen that had fallen from a frazzled vendor's table. The poor young woman yells at Rhaella in warning before scrambling for her wares before they roll farther to a patch of mud. The shouts make the fallen dowager queen all but leap from her feet, briefly bringing her back to the days in the Red Keep and Aerys breathing down her neck. Her entire body feels cold. Stiff.

"Is something the matter?" the vendor asks bastard Valyrian.

Rhaella blinks quickly, trying to fight back the haze of misery and fear that she should have left behind back home. Was it even home to begin with, though? "I-I'm fine." She averts her gaze, focusing on Daenerys who stares back at her with her big, purple eyes. The babe is still too young to understand what just happened. It's a small mercy.

"You don't look fine." The woman doesn't pry, however.

Though they have been in Braavos for a while, Rhaella still isn't used to being talked to like this. She quickly realizes how much she appreciates it, however, for it means she doesn't have to keep up appearances anymore. Here, she is just one of many women in the crowd. "Forgive me. I was just too lost in my thoughts."

The woman's smile is polite.  _ Kind _ , even. "We all have our own troubles to deal with." She gathers the bolts of cloth in her arms and tries to prop them back up on her table.

A couple are smeared with mud, unfortunately. They’re nothing but roughspun wool in various drab colors, and probably would sell for little even without the damage.

"How much for those?" Rhaella finds herself asking. Perhaps these will do with a bit of washing.

* * *

The sight of Rhaella and the muddied cloth causes Elia to laugh in amusement. The Dornish princess eyes the new purchases with critical eyes, the smile never quite leaving her mouth.

"How bold of you to chide me over impulsiveness when you bring home  _ such wares _ ," she crows.

Rhaella tilts her head up, proud as ever. "I pitied the girl who sold them. She would have earned little even if they hadn't been sullied."

"You truly deserve what the people say about your good heart."

"I am more than a dutiful wife with a good heart, dear."

With that, Elia's eyes darken with anger — not towards her, Rhaella knows. Ghosts of the past haunt them both. "I know, Queen Mother. I do."

Rhaella sighs. She doesn't wish to darken her day further with talks of her fortunately dead husband and yet his presence has been lingering in her head all throughout the day. Things would have been different if his death didn't mean the loss of the throne. "Sometimes I still see him when I sleep."

" _ Nightmares _ ?"

"Yes. I've had them even when he still lived and they only grew worse when I learned what he  _ did  _ to you."

"I still dream about it too — not as frequently as I did at first, but sometimes I still wake up in cold sweat." Elia's fists clench around a swathe of cloth that she's examining. "It takes a moment to remember who and where I am when it happens. Only then can I tell myself that I have to keep moving forward."

"Keep moving forward..." Rhaella closes her eyes. Letting go of the pain and anger, fear and grief is too difficult for her, still. "I fear that I have a long way to go before I can accomplish that, dear."

Sighing, Elia reaches out to pat her goodmother's hand. "I can only begin to imagine how terrible it is for you. But for what it's worth, you have me here."

Rhaella smiles, tight and tense despite the warm relief flooding through her veins. "Thank you, truly — not just for the companionship, but for all the support you've given House Targaryen even when we brought you nothing but pain and grief."

The smile Elia returns is brighter, but equally reserved. "I married into your House — I know my duties as much as you do. Besides, you and some of the children are living proof that not all Targaryens are bad."

_ Some _ . A simple word is enough to send Rhaella teetering over the edge of despair yet again. "Has Viserys been causing trouble again?"

"He pulled my daughter's hair."

"I apologize. Viserys is my son and I love him, but his behavior troubles me too. Sometimes I look at him and see only his father."

Elia sighs. This isn't the first time she's heard her say so. "Perhaps it has nothing to do with being Aerys' child. It could've been the way he was raised. You were rarely allowed to spend time with him even then, and who knows what kind of people Aerys tried to surround him with? There is a lot of work needed to be done before he learns how to behave, and Seven forbit, we must keep trying."

"And if you're wrong?"

"Then at least we tried, rather than resign ourselves so easily."

Those words make Rhaella admire the younger woman more. Few wouldn't let misfortune damplen their will. Even Rhaella had constantly given in to her despair despite the brief glimmers of hope she can grasp within her sight. "Still, I can't help but worry. Madness has destroyed our family. I can't let it ruin us further."

"But what will you do if Viserys truly is as mad as you fear?" Elia's voice is unnaturally sharp. It pierces.

It only takes Rhaella a few seconds to come up with her answer. "Then I shall do whatever it takes to stop him from harming the rest of us."

_ Whatever it takes _ — such big words, she knows, but what else could she do? She won't let her family destroy itself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that's a fast update. I managed to get my creative juices going and churn out another chapter.
> 
> Finally, Rhaella. I've been longing to get into her head for a while. There's so little about her from canon, aside from Aerys' treatment of her and the way people held her in high regards, but I quickly realized that being sweet and downtrodden and dutiful just won't cut it here. Rhaella is a dragon too, and by gods, she will unleash it upon the world . Despite that, though, she was an abused woman and needs a lot of healing before she can kick ass. There's also her growing fear of the Targaryen madness that also needs to be dealt with.


	3. Bears of the North, Stags of the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn, weddings, and an unexpected letter.

In the year that she has served as its lady, Catelyn has never seen such a flurry of activity in the ancient keep until today. Not even Benjen's preparations and subsequent departure for Moat Cailin was met with so much cacophony. After all, he had left without much fanfare back then, accompanied only by a handful of hand-picked builders and trusted servants.

Her goodbrother's return to Winterfell is different, which is to be expected. His return means he's finally ready to be wed and such an occasion warrants a feast of such great proportions that every lord and lordling in the North have been invited to attend. The grim region is known for its  _ rare  _ moments of levity — moments that its hardy folk haven't indulged in since the Rebellion.

As Lady Stark, it's Catelyn's job to see to all of the preparations for tonight's wedding and the succeeding festivities. There's so much to be done — none of them can wait for her husband, who probably won't be back until just before the wedding starts.

Sighing to herself, she flits past servant after servant, shouting orders and clarifying directions. The busy cacophony surrounding her is something that she could've easily lost herself into in a more carefree life.

Today, however, her thoughts keep straying to the children tucked away upstairs.

Robb is as hale as ever, his health thankfully blessed by the Seven. He has grown much in the past year, his tufts of auburn hair thicker and longer, and his eyes growing bluer by the day. Despite her initial misgivings, Catelyn wishes that the same could be said for Lyanna's poor twins.

Jeyne's health had been the one to take the turn for the worse. It started about a fortnight ago, when she first came down with a cough that quickly segued to a fever. Despite Maester Luwin's best efforts to tend to the child, her fever kept returning after a few days. The pox that Jon acquired a few days after his sister's initial bout with fever made matters worse.

While most people in Winterfell couldn't care less about the bastards' health, Catelyn quickly found that she did care. She is a lady and a mother, first and foremost, and she can't bear to see the children suffer. To the entire household's confusion, she's spent the past few days praying to the Mother for the twins' good health. She swore to treat them better — treat them as her  _ own  _ children — if her fervent prayers have been granted.

To her relief, the Seven answered her pleas.

Jon recovered from his pox three days ago, with Jeyne's fever breaking for good just a few hours later. While the children are still quite weak, they're healthier than they were just a sennight ago.

Now they're back in the nursery with Robb. Catelyn is sure that they're heavily guarded by Ser Jaime himself at the moment, which puts her just a little at ease. She still doesn't trust the Lannister boy, Kingsguard oaths be damned, but she knows that he can't harm any of the children here. Even a fool wouldn't dare risk it.

The child in her belly kicks, eliciting a smile. Just six moons ago, her womb had quickened with a child again. Maester Luwin, ever the worrywart, fretted over how early it is for another child. Catelyn gave her a piece of his mind. This is something to be thankful for, in her opinion. The more children she bears Ned, the stronger their family becomes. Besides, she doesn't have it in her to take moon tea — not when the gods have blessed her with such fertility. Their children shall herald good fortune. She can feel it in her bones.

"Milady!" A servant approaches her, out of breath. She must've ran all the way here. "House Mormont will be here at any moment."

Catelyn sighs in relief. She feared that the storm from three days ago would cause some delays. The Seven are good, indeed. "Have the guards wait at the courtyard. I'll join them shortly."

She watches the servant scuttle off after stammering a reply. Though the Mormonts' timely arrival pleases her, she had hoped to check on the children first. They can wait, she knows, but the twins' bout with illnesses had left her feeling a little paranoid over all three babes' welfare.

Shaking her head, she heads on, down the stairs and through the main part of the keep. People bustle around her, paying her the smallest courtesies as they sweep past, too engrossed in their preparations. Catelyn returns their courtesies, nonetheless, understanding the sense of urgency. Her lord husband insisted upon it — busy though he may be with his own tasks. The North must be strengthened.

Despite the busy atmosphere, the courtyard is all but cleared of activity. A handful of guards join her just across the open gates. She doesn't speak — her mouth feels too dry. She knows only too well just how much derision she faces from the Northern lords. Surely, the Mormonts feel the same. She must be nothing but steel when she faces them. She hasn't been living here in the north long enough to know what it's like to be ice, too. Maybe someday, but not now.

It doesn't take long for House Mormont to arrive. A large fit man dressed in Mormont greens and blacks leads their party — Lord Jorah himself. Though about a decade older than Catelyn, he's still admirably fit, though his blac hair is already thinning. At least his beard is still quite impressive.

He approaches her with a strained yet polite smile. "Greetings, Lady Stark."

"Greetings, Lord Jorah." Catelyn returns his smile in kind. She doesn't know what to make of him — a sentiment that he shares, she knows. Perhaps this is a  _ test _ .

Inclining his head, Ser Jorah moves towards the even older woman beside him. "My aunt, Lady Maege."

Unlike her more passive nephew, Lady Maege's face is set in a stubborn, calculating frown. She eyes Catelyn up and down, lips pressed together, as if expecting a less than favorable response. She receives none of the sort, and the quiet crows as the wind picks up speed, sending the short, stout woman's graying hair fluttering around her fiercely wrinkled face.

" _ Hmph _ ," she finally says in greeting. "I had hoped to scare you, little fish."

Despite her misgivings, Catelyn finds herself smiling in response. "I may be a trout but my scales are steel."

"Then perhaps there may be hope in you yet." Lady Maege smiles, pulling a tall, lovely woman to her side. “My daughter, Dacey.”

Benjen's bride-to-be is a sight to behold — lithe, with wiry muscles, and six feet tall, but lovely nonetheless. Her gaze falls upon Catelyn, but her dark eyes hold no malice in them. There's only curiosity there. "Well met, my lady."

"Well met,  _ indeed _ ." Catelyn nods in approval. This isn't how girls are made back in the south, but the North values strength — it's what Ned often says. Perhaps the match with Benjen will be more advantageous than she expects.

Despite her rather formidable appearance, Dacey's smile is gentle and kind. "I'm sure you'd have loved to meet my sisters too, but alas, Alysane had to stay behind to look after Lyra — the little one is still too young to venture away from home, you see."

It must be the reason behind Lady Maege's ill temper. Even Catelyn couldn't imagine leaving her children behind, even if one of them might be old enough to manage a household in her stead.

"No." The lady in question's sharp voice breaks through her thoughts.

Alarmed and confused, Catelyn turns her gaze to her. "I'm sorry?"

"I know what you're thinking, Lady Stark, and I am sorry to say that you're mistaken. I am what I am. Not even worries over the daughters I've left behind will change that." Lady Maege's smile is proud. "Besides, I do not doubt Alysane's ability to look after Bear Island while we're gone. We do not coddle children here in the North."

We do not coddle children in the North. Lady Maege's words resonate through Catelyn's mind — an admonishment and a lesson both. She files the information away as something to remember. If she is to be respected here, she must swallow her fears and avoid coddling the children under her care. It will be done.

"Of course, my lady. The children you raised are surely strong enough to spread their own wings without your aid."

Lady Maege huffs in agreement. "As they should."

Lord Jorah takes his place beside Catelyn as they head into the warmth of the keep. "Forgive my aunt," he mutters under his breath. "She's always been quite  _ irritable _ ."

Catelyn doesn't breathe a sigh of relief until the Mormonts have settled down. Frankly speaking, she still doesn't know what to make of them. Are they truly that strange, or is it all a test?

She keeps her calm demeanour, however. After polite goodbyes, she heads up the nursery again, which she knows will be heavily guarded today. Dishonorable acts such as assassinations are frowned upon here in the North, but Ned wouldn't take any chances — especially not with the Targaryen children in there, though only a handful of people know.

Stalwart as ever, Ser Jaime stands guard by the entrance to the nursery, accompanied by three other guards. He exchanges a small nod with Catelyn as she passes through the door.

Since their tense conversation, the day after he first arrived in Winterfell, Catelyn hasn't talked properly to the young knight again — there simply isn't anything to say. Like the Mormonts, she still doesn't know what to make of him. Ned trusts him enough, but trusting a Lannister is still quite difficult for her. Her father would have advised her against it despite Ser Jaime's apparently admirable display of honesty and honor.

A shame, really. They're both so far away from home and she could use the companionship of a fellow Southron.

The nursery itself is peaceful enough today. Wylla is busy cooing to Robb, who's finally starting to babble. A pair of small front teeth peek out from his mouth as he giggles at the wet nurse.

"It seems like his teeth are finally coming along well," Catelyn notes as she stands over her son's crib.

"Mah!" Robb greets as she picks him up. He nuzzles against her embrace, his auburn curls tickling her face.

Wylla smiles tentatively. Though Catelyn showed her nothing but cautious kindness, the girl still seems to be a little afraid of her. "His teeth were bound to erupt the moment he started chewing on our hands."

"Indeed." Catelyn smiles and presses a kiss on her son's forehead. "How do the twins fare?"

"Better, milady. They're stronger now."

"As they should. Children of the North must be strong."

An awkward moment of silence passes as Robb toys with his mother's hair. Catelyn coos to him affectionately and lets him play for a few more seconds before setting him down.

"Mah!" the babe complains with a soft whine.

"Later, my sweetling. Let me tend to your  _ siblings  _ too." Smiling tenderly, Catelyn turns to Jeyne first. The child watches her with curious eyes, not used to receiving so much attention from her aunt — her supposed stepmother. Ignoring the pang of guilt in her heart, Catelyn picks her up and holds her close with another coo. "Feeling stronger, little Jeyne?"

The child stares at him with solemn eyes, the indigo briefly evident in her gray gaze. It was only there for a moment, but it's enough to spark fear in Catelyn's heart — not for her House, but for the child whose identity might be put to question if someone looks too closely. The Seven will look down on Catelyn with wrath if she lets any harm befall the children. No, she won't  _ allow  _ it.

"Guh?" Jeyne babbles, fists briefly latching onto Catelyn's dress as she finally smiles.

"Yes, it's a  _ promise _ ." The lady kisses her niece's forehead and puts her down before turning to Jon.

The boy gazes at her with doleful eyes. He has always been melancholic — perhaps he's taken after his real father, who was said to bear a sorrowful air. Catelyn picks him up as gently as she could, worried that he might still be sore from the pox. He's quiet even as she pulls him into a soft embrace, with nary a whimper even when she sets him down.

"He's always been a quiet child," Wylla sighs.

That's how Ned finds her, with Jon in her arms. She kisses the child's forehead before she sets him down and turns to her husband with a polite smile. "Welcome back, my lord."

Ned strides over to her and kisses her — not as passionate as her younger self would have imagined, but it's affectionate enough. "Thank you, my lady."

Rising to her feet, Catelyn glances back at Wylla and graces her with another smile. "The children are doing well today. Robb's teeth finally erupted."

"About time." Ned leans down to ruffle the children's hair. "Are the twins faring better?"

"Better, indeed." A warm smile quirks up Catelyn's lips. "Let's leave them be for now. We do have other preparations to attend to before the wedding."

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell leave the nursery after a few more words with Wylla. The bustle of activity around them remains, though fewer servants now approach with some concern or another. Perhaps everything will be going along more smoothly now that Ned is back.

The moment of peace and quiet ends, however, as soon as they encounter Maester Luwin, a scroll in his hands. "A letter from the king."

Ned's lips purse together in displeasure at the mere mention of his old friend. The rift between them — a rift caused by the events at the Tower of Joy — hasn ever been fully mended, and despite Catelyn's gentle urging, her husband adamantly refused to rekindle their friendship. Still, he takes the letter as solemnly as he could. "Thank you, Maester Luwin. My lady wife and I will peruse its contents  _ in private _ ."

Maester Luwin takes that as a clear dismissal. With a polite murmur, he excuses himself and heads back to his tower, leaving Catelyn and Ned alone.

"I've half a mind to throw this in the fire," Ned admits with a sigh as soon as they retire to his solar.

" _ No _ . You will read it and see what he has to say," Catelyn insists. "We can't afford to cut ties with the Crown — it will help us plan for the future."

"You're right. Forgive me, my lady. I just cannot stomach reading whatever Robert has to say — not after..." He trails off and unfurls the scroll instead.

"What  _ does  _ it say?" The last three letters contained nothing but pleas for Ned to join the court at King's Landing, as far as Catelyn knows. Perhaps this one will be no better.

"It announces the birth of King Robert and Queen Cersei's first born child, Princess Myrcella. Black of hair and blue of eyes, like her father, and her father's father before her." The look of disdainful interest on Ned's face slowly gives way to wrath as he reads the rest of the letter. "Robert hopes that when the time comes,  _ Princess Myrcella and Lord Robb _ will join their fathers' Houses and fulfill the pact that the accursed Rhaegar tried to destroy."

"The  _ fool  _ is truly desperate to join your Houses and be your brother in all but blood," Catelyn notes wryly.

Her words are met with Ned's huff. He clenches his fists around the letter, a shadow of hatred darkening his eyes. "I cannot allow it. These — these blasted betrothals are what got us into this situation in the first place. No. He can find a match for his  _ precious  _ daughter elsewhere."

Catelyn sighs. She understands her husband's sentiment, truly. Living with him for the better part of the year had taught her enough about Ned. However, she can't let the anger in his heart cloud his judgement and endanger them all. "You must be careful with your words, nevertheless. Robert is king now — offending him is the last thing you want to do if you wish to protect us and enact your plans."

Ned purses his lips as he meets her gaze, trembling from all the unspoken pain and anger. It takes him a while, but he slowly unclenches his pale fists. "You're right, my lady. We must think this through."

"As much as we can." Catelyn reaches out to squeeze his hand — it's colder than it should, even here in the frigid North.

"Where do we begin?" His eyes meet hers.

Catelyn's mind whirls already, plan after plan forming. Betrothing Robb to little Myrcella will be advantageous, she knows, even if it's bound to break once the Targaryens make their move. Forming such ties come with a risk, however — the eyes of the court falling upon them may bring the wrath of other more ambitious Houses upon the North, and it might bring unwanted attention to Lyanna's children. No. They must play  _ safe _ .

"We begin by replying to Robert. Thank him for the offer, but make no promises whatsoever. It's best not to keep his hopes up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The order of Baratheon kids will be different here. Since Jaime is in no position to father Cersei's kids, Myrcella is Robert's daughter this time around.


	4. The Measure of a Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella deals with different pieces of news.

It's been a year since they arrived in Braavos.

At a quick glance, it seems like barely anything has changed. Rhaella and her family still live in the humble little house with the red door, the lemon tree standing in the garden — a gift from the Sealord himself, like the house — filling the air with its fragrant scent. Even their servants remain the same, all of them a trusted few who had accompanied the last Targaryens when they fled Dragonstone.

The children, to Rhaella's joy, have grown. Viserys has gone from reading children's books to the basic histories of their House, expressing great interest in House Targaryen's military power that turns into spiteful tantrums whenever Ser Arthur attempts to train him in swordsmanship.

Rhaenys is yet to fully master the art of reading, her restless nature making it more difficult for both Rhaella and Elia to tutor her. All she ever wants is to run in the gardens, her uncle's wooden sword in hand.

Egg and Dany, meanwhile, are still too little to start their education. They'd rather content themselves with toddling around, to most of the household's delight, babbling to each other and watching the older children play.

Rhaella knows, however, that this  _ fragile  _ peace isn't made to last.

Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell return from one of their ventures on a particularly cloudy afternoon, exhausted but nonetheless triumphant. The children swarm them, as is now customary, giggling as Arthur hands over trinkets from his trip — a new belt for Viserys, a silk ribbon for Rhaenys, and wooden horse toys for Egg and Dany.

"How fared the trip?" Rhaella asked as soon as the adults retired to the lone study that they all use in turns.

Ser Oswell settled on a rickety old chair with a sigh. "Lord Commander Mormont drives a  _ hard bargain _ , my queen."

Ser Arthur takes his place beside his comrade, flashing an appeasing smile. "The North is still recovering from the losses in the  _ blasted  _ Rebellion. They can spare only so much gold for the Wall as it is and the Lord Commander must make do with what he has."

"Understandable." Rhaella clasps her hands together, preparing herself for the worst. "Did you still manage to secure an amenable deal with them?"

"A fair one," Ser Arthur admits with a grim smile. "A shipment of wool — half undyed, half dyed black. We believe that your letter to Ser Aemon found him ahead of our arrival, and that he managed to convince the Lord Commander to find a middle ground."

"Your letter to Maester Aemon arrived as early as expected, if Lord Commander Mormont's words are to be believed." A faint smile of amusement livens up Ser Oswell's face. "He said that the Maester asked him to negotiate well with us."

Rhaella returns the smile. "As he should. My dear great uncle is so kind that it's almost impossible to resist his requests."

"It served us well, then," Elia agrees. She drums her fingers on the desk. "Regular fabric shipments to the Wall will give us a steady source of income until we can grow our trade more."

"It should, but this won't last. The Wall doesn't have enough coin to keep us sustained for too long. We must move fast." Rhaella sighs. Can two women — even with the help of the knights at their beck and call — succeed in such a venture? She doesn't truly share her gooddaughter's confidence, try as she might.

With a hum of agreement, Elia writes in her journal. "Of course, Queen Mother. We'll keep looking for others to trade with."

"If I may ask, my ladies, have you heard from Ser Gerold while we were away?" Ser Arthur asks. "We couldn't write to him — we feared that our ravens might be led astray."

It's an understandable worry. Few know of their presence here in Braavos, but surely Tywin is working hard to locate them. After all, he had lied about Elia and her children's deaths, and will be desperate to rectify it before he gets caught.

_ Tywin _ . Thinking of the despicable man makes Rhaella's skin crawl. Her husband had foolishly trusted him once — though Rhaella truly can't blame him. Tywin was capable and loyal once. Everything only went downhill when he wed Joanna. His eventual hatred of Aerys is easy enough to understand and yet...

"We received only one raven since you left," Elia admits. "He managed to secure an audience with the  _ Golden Company _ ."

The two knights exchange glances of discomfort. Ser Gerold, ever reliable, had volunteered to inquire with various sellsword companies who might agree to help them reclaim the Iron Throne. None welcomed him well, save for the Golden Company. It's a disturbing thought, Rhaella must agree.

"And you haven't heard from him since then?" Ser Oswell pressed on.

"It was only three days ago. There's no cause to worry  _ yet _ ." Despite her words, however, Elia licked her lips in a worried manner. "Surely we'll hear from him soon enough."

Ser Arthur's countenance darkened. "Forgive me for my assumptions, but is it truly wise to seek the Golden Company's help? Every sellsword only cares about the gold, but these men — their loyalties lie only to the Blackfyre pretenders."

"The Blackfyres are no more." Rhaella purses her lips. Hearing her own doubts spoken out loud does nothing to bolster her confidence in her own decisions. She was not meant to lead, was she? "Perhaps they might be willing to fight for the chance to go  _ home _ ."

There's also Rhaella's hope that by mending the rift between House Targaryen and the Blackfyre pretenders' supporters, they can strengthen the kingdom. She thinks of Aegon, her husband's unfortunate bastard. Naming him a Targaryen will bode ill, but giving him the bastard name of Waters doesn't sit well with the dowager queen either. Perhaps, like with the Night's Watch, they can find a  _ middle ground _ .

It's all wishful thinking at this point.

They spend the rest of the afternoon discussing plans for their new trade, Ser Gerold and the Golden Company now a subject left for another day. By the time they finish, Rhaella's head is starting to hurt.

Rhaella remains in the study long after the others left for their own tasks. She feels the exhaustion of the past year creeping up to hear. They've done nothing but plan and scheme and worry, with no end seemingly in sight. Despite their small victories, they still don't feel enough. A part of her wishes that she was born a man — not just so that Aerys could never lay a hand on her, but also so she could have been prepared better for the new life she must now live. She was never taught how to lead, and now her House might  _ suffer  _ for it.

The door creaks open without a preceding knock. Rhaenys steps inside, eyes swollen with tears. "Gran-mother?" she whispers. "Where's Mama?" Egg and Dany toddle behind her, babbling in confusion.

"Your Mama is in the kitchens, sweetling." Rhaella relaxes and holds out her arm in invitation as her granddaughter slams the door shut with a sob. "Is something the matter."

"Vish-weesh, bad," Dany declares, hobbling to her mother and falling on her lap.

" _ Bad _ !" Egg echoes, banging his chubby fists on the desk.

Rhaenys sniffs before approaching her grandmother too, hugging her waist tightly. "Viserys broke my toy."

"Bwoh!"

Rhaella sighs. Scooping the children up in her arms, one by one, she settles them on her lap, an arm wrapped tightly around all three of them. She needs comfort too. "Did he say something before breaking your toy?"

"He said girls shouldn't have horses. Or dragons." Rhaenys whimpers.

"He's wrong." Rhaella couldn't help it. She fears that her son might grow up to be worse than Aerys at this point. Her husband only started showing signs of madness until he was ten and two. "Girls can ride horses too, and two of the  _ greatest  _ dragon riders in our House were girls. You were even named after one of them."

"Me?"

"Yes, sweetling. Queen Rhaenys was one of the greatest women of House Targaryen. With her house, Meraxes, she helped her husband Aegon conquer the Seven Kingdoms and be crowned as its first king."

"Egg-on? Egg!" Dany claps her hand in delight.

"Ray?" Egg responds in kind.

"You were named after them, my sweetlings. Rhaegar wanted a Visenya too, but alas, it is not to be." The memory sours the tenderness in the air. Memories of Aerys, Rhaegar, and the mad prophecies that ultimately destroyed their House weighs heavily upon the dowager queen's shoulders.

Rhaenys looked up with shining eyes, previous frustrations gone. "Vi-sen-ya?"

"Yes. Visenya. She and her sister-wife, Rhaenys, are remembered forevermore as warrior queens." The entire tides of fate could have changed if Queen Rhaenys did not vanish — or perish — in Dorne.

Egg giggles. "Dah-gon! Egg want dah-gon."

"Oh, no, my sweetling. The dragons are no more —" Rhaella freezes at her own words, shuddering. She remembers the chest of dragon eggs, concealed right beneath her desk. "—but eggs remain, still."

"Egg! Me, Egg."

“No, you’re an Aegon,” Rhaenys says with a smug little smile.

“An Aegon can be an Egg, too.” Rhaella smiles, thinking of her grandfather, Aegon the Unlikely. He had been called Egg too. Would  _ their _ Egg make a name for himself, too? Or would he meet an untimely end like his namesake instead?

* * *

The silence of the night suffocates, moreso after stopping two more arguments between Viserys and the other children. There are times, Rhaella knows, when her son is more amiable — a child almost sweet as his sister. He could be meek and mild when he wants to, but his other nature is slowly proving to be too much to contain.

She fears him, as much as she fears her husband — as much as she  _ should  _ have feared Rhaegar too, really. Madness isn’t always about screaming and beatings, fire and ashes, blood and death. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a spark of obsession that turns into a raging fire that seeks to destroy all that one holds dear. It had been the case for Rhaegar, whose interest in magic and prophecies destroyed their dynasty. It was how Aegon Targaryen, fifth of his name, razed the people dearest to him in Summerhall until they were nothing but ashes, all in a futile attempt to hatch dragons from stone eggs.

A knock on the door pulls her out of her ruminations. She sits up on her bed and does her best to smooth down her hair to a half-presentable look. “Come in.”

Elia slips past the door, shutting it quietly behind her. She holds two tightly-sealed scrolls. “A raven bearing these arrived from Winterfell.”

“Winterfell.” It’s about time. It’s been a few turns of the moon since they last heard from House Stark. Rhaella motions for her gooddaughter to sit on the bed beside her, right next to the lamp. “I’m still struggling to read your codes, Elia, do be a dear and read them to me.”

“Of course.” The Dornish Princess adjusts the lamp ever so slightly and unfurls the first scroll, pausing briefly to let a small frown crease her otherwise smooth forehead. “Lord Stark apologizes for the late communication. The twins kept them busy with a bout of illness — fever for Jaehaera and smallpox for Jaehaerys — which they survived without complications. They’re now under Lady Catelyn’s care. Lord Benjen, has been wed just three days after the children’s recovery to Lady Dacey Mormont, who will now be taking her place as the Lady of Moat Cailin.”

“Then it seems that the Starks are doing well, for now.” Worry fills Rhaella, nevertheless. Are dragons meant to thrive in the cold? “If they speak truly, then the children are also safe.”

“Safe, somewhat.” Elia purses her lips briefly before continuing. “Lady Stark is due to give birth any day. Perhaps she’s already birthed her child by the time this reached us.”

The Starks will remain strong, as long as they have enough heirs. Rhaella couldn’t help but think of the children they left under the wolves’ care. What will this mean for them? “And what of the other letter?”

With a prim nod, Elia sets the scroll aside and unfurls the other one, outrage on her face as her eyes scan its contents. “The Usurper King, Robert Baratheon, and his wife Cersei Lannister have just announced the birth of their firstborn child. They wished to betroth  _ Princess  _ Myrcella to little Robb Stark, whose father staunchly refused.”

“The oaf was always so desperate to join House Baratheon to House Stark.” Rhaella smiles grimly. “There would have been merits to a false pact of marriage, but I must admit that it was wise of Lord Stark to refuse the pact too. They must play safe — they bear too many dangerous secrets.”

The birth of Robert’s child, however, unsettles her. What will they do with her once they retake the Iron Throne? Rhaella can’t stomach killing a child who had nothing to do with the Targaryens’ defeat, even if they’re Robert’s progeny.

Can dragons bring anything but death and destruction to the world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I actually had this since last week but completely forgot to upload. There was a lot on my mind, and work didn't help matters at all.
> 
> We're going to have another timeskip next chapter as we go back to Catelyn's POV. We'll also be hearing from someone that we haven't seen for a while.


	5. What Must Be Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat makes peace with the decisions her duties have forced upon her.

Six years of peace pass quickly since the end of Robert’s Rebellion. To Ned and Cat’s joy, their family has grown further in those interim years. Sansa was born about a sennight after Benjen’s marriage to Lady Dacey. She was a delight, though her delicate Tully features — the brightest blue eyes and hair surprisingly more red than auburn — had been the talk of Winterfell.

Neither of Ned’s children were born the Stark coloring, save for his bastards — an  _ terrible  _ omen, for some.

Their fears have somewhat been assuaged when Arya was born about fifteen turns of the moon after Sansa — pale and long-faced, dark-haired and grey-eyed like the rest of the Starks. She kept Winterfell up for days and days after her birth, mewling her lungs out for the world to hear. Neither Sansa nor Jeyne had been so loud. Though Cat could only sigh in exhaustion, Ned’s laughter bore nothing but amusement — booming and clear.

“She’s every bit like her aunt,” he told her one night as he took the child in his arms. “She cried loudly too, and woke the entire castle every other night.”

“Do you miss her?” she found herself asking. Grief knew no time, she was well aware of that.

“With every passing day.” He kissed their newborn’s forehead, making the child bawl louder as his beard brushed against her skin.

Despite the delight she brought, Arya’s birth had been quite difficult. Maester Luwin attributed it to the strain on Cat’s body — she had carried three children in quick succession, and must rest soon if she wished to give birth to more.

She understands that she must have more children. While she believes that three is a perfectly good number — it was just her and Lysa and Edmure back home in Riverrun, after all — she knows only too well that the rest of the north will be expecting more sons, just in case something terrible should happen to Robb.

More sons will come, but  _ not today _ .

To add to her list of headaches, she and Ned have to deal with letters from King Robert. The insufferable man has been constantly pestering them with offers of betrothal. Despite the Starks’ polite rejection, Robert is still determined to marry off Robb and Myrcella. Though the son who was born a year after Myrcella — black of hair and blue of eyes — was stillborn, it did nothing to dampen Robert’s enthusiasm.

As soon as Prince Joffrey was born, eleven turns of the moon after poor Prince Gendry, Robert resumed his marriage offers. In addition to a betrothal between Myrcella and Robb, he also started offering a match between Joffrey and Sansa, who is over a year older, and later to Arya, when he heard of her birth.

“Preposterous,” Ned had growled one night after flinging Robert’s latest letter into the fire.

Cat couldn’t help but nod. “Surely the king is not  _ daft  _ enough to misunderstand our rejections?”

“Unfortunately, it is how he is. Such subtleties are often lost to him.”

Despite all the stories she’s heard throughout the years, it was only then that Cat truly knew that the realm would go  _ nowhere  _ with a man like Robert Baratheon on the throne. It strengthened her resolve to help him on his way  _ out _ .

Though Robert’s letters often dampen their mood, seeing the children grow brave and strong has the opposite effect. Robb and the twins have been training with Martyn Cassel and Ser Jaime Lannister himself since their fifth nameday, and with Sansa about to celebrate hers, it won’t be long until she’s trained in archery too.

It won’t ever truly sit well with Cat, seeing the girls being taught about combat. However, she knows that this will be for their own good — they must be prepared for any dangers that will surely come their way. 

“I wish they can be nothing but innocent children for a while longer,” she sighs to Ned one night, as they lie in bed amidst the warmth of the crackling flames.

“They  _ cannot  _ be coddled.” Ned closes his eyes, sighing. “They’ll never be truly safe, not while Robert is on the throne.”

She lowers her voice, in case someone is eavesdropping. “Not while we’re housing fugitive Targaryens, you mean?”

“Cat, we can’t just say something like  _ that  _ out loud —”

“I know.”

“They’re not the only ones who will be in danger —”

“I know!” Cat closes her eyes, sighing. She’s never felt  _ this  _ exhausted in her entire life. “I’m just so  _ tired  _ of all these secrets we have to keep, Ned. I love the twins as my own children and yet I fear that they’ll endanger the ones I’ve  _ truly  _ given birth to!’

The love and fear and uncertainty swirl up a storm in her heart that threatens to tear her apart. She hates it.

“Do you think I do not feel the same fear?” Ned’s eyes blaze with something — rage and love and fear and desperation all melding together into a painful whole as he throws caution into the wind. “They are  _ our  _ children now, yet I worry everyday that something might slip and Robert finds out. But what can we do, Cat? Throw them to Essos with the rest of their other family and dishonor my promise to my sister? My family and my duty?”

“We raise them.” It always boils down to this, Cat knows. “They’ll be safe here — it’s far easier to discover them away from here. Their kin stand out too much. Besides, you promised to teach them the ways of the North, did you not?”

Her dear husband sighs. “I did.”

A moment of clarity struck Catelyn. Perhaps this is finally her chance to strike an agreement with her husband. “Then perhaps something similar may be done for our children, Ned.”

“Something similar?”

“They are Starks, it is true, but the blood of the Tullys flow within them too. If you wish to honor the twins’ mother by teaching them the ways of the North, then perhaps it won’t hurt to teach our children the way of the South too.”

“The ways of the South?” A mess of emotions seem to run across Ned’s normally stoic face — disbelief, annoyance, resignation.

Cat knows that this might be the only opportunity to push this further. She doesn’t hesitate. The opening has allowed her to see all angles she can use to get what she wants, and she won’t hesitate to make the most out of them. “We can educate the twins too — it may be a way to help them learn more about their other family. It will also help  _ all  _ of the children navigate the life that our plans might bring to them.”

A moment of worrying silence passes, but to Cat’s relief, all goes to her favor.

Her husband eyes her with newfound admiration, a smile blooming on his face. “You’re right, of course, but this will be easier said than done. We’ll need a septon and a septa — ones that we can trust.”

“Have you not made enough  _ friends _ in the south to make this happen?”

A small, worried frown creases Ned’s brows. His eyes dart to her face, then to the fireplace. “I have. But Cat — the only ones we can truly count on are the Martells and the Daynes.”

“And?”

“I still know not what to make of the Martells. I believe we can trust  _ her _ , for what it’s worth, but she can only do so much while she’s on the other side of the Narrow Sea.”

Cat closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She must admit that her husband is right. While Elia Martell may have good intentions, not as much can be said about her brothers. Despite the princess’ support, they may still see Lyanna Stark’s bloodline as a threat to whatever plans they might be brewing.

“How about House Dayne?” Cat asks instead.

Ned pauses, discomfort on his face. “Do you remember what I told you about Brandon and Ashara?”

“How could I not?” A tense smile crosses Cat’s face. “When you attacked me with the truth mere days after you returned?”

She closes her eyes, reminiscing. It had hurt at first, knowing that  _ dear  _ Brandon’s love for women and pleasure meant that he never was faithful to her from the start. Perhaps that duel with Petyr was nothing but an impressive show — and an attempt to claim yet another woman as a prize.

Marrying Ned was a boon she’s still learning to appreciate day by day, but she couldn’t help but feel her heart hurting at the lives that had to be lost for this to happen. It’s never  _ fair _ .

A small frown begins to crease Ned’s forehead. Stormy gray eyes gaze into clear blue with painful intensity. “I do not wish to cause you pain or dishonor —”

“By asking for their help?” Despite taking pride in her self-control, Cat couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Ned. I love you too much to rage about your brother’s infidelity — not when you make me  _ this  _ happy, despite all the dangers that our marriage has brought me.”

“Then I’ll write to her first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you.” The victory brings a smile to Cat’s face. May she win more in the coming days.

* * *

It only takes three weeks for the Daynes to reply. Ashara’s handwritten reply brings a mix of relief and trepidation that becomes quite the struggle to swallow down. 

She means them no harm, Cat has to remind herself. Whatever happened between her and Brandon means nothing to her — a dead man’s foolishness need not sow the seeds of her dishonor. Ashara Dayne had offered to come to Winterfell herself to pose as House Stark’s newest septa, teaching the children the ways of the Seven, and any other practical skill that the Starks deem necessary for their children. It is a tempting offer. However...

“She’s planning to come here as a  _ fake _ septa? Really?” She stalks around the solar, letter in hand, well-aware of Ned’s gaze following her around.

Ned himself clasps his hands together tightly. His face is as frustratingly stoic as ever, though there’s a hint of amusement in his gray gaze. He’s enjoying this, then. “Do you not trust her to teach your children about the finer art of sewing, embroidery, and pleasing a husband, as a proper Septa should?”

Cat narrows her eyes. “Debauchery, you mean?”

“You underestimate her. The Dornish are not as vacuous as that. Besides, she spent some years in King Aerys’ court — surely she’s learned something valuable there that she can pass on to our children?”

“Something valuable?”

“Court intrigue, survival,  _ politics _ .” Ned pats the stack of papers on his decks. “Lessons that I’m slowly learning thanks to our correspondents in Essos, as you know only too well.”

Cat  _ does  _ know well. She always read Princess Elia’s letters alongside her husband. They were most informative, she has to admit. Though she hates the thought of it, she knows that her children will need the same knowledge someday, and she finds herself nodding along before she can rationalize against it again.

“Very well.” She stops pacing and joins her husband, setting the letter down on her desk. “Tell her to come as soon as she can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! Real life has been so hectic recently and I can barely keep up. I've gotten my writting shimmies back on so we'll get the ball rolling again.


End file.
